Under Cover of Darkness (34 page)

"Then she must have had another body in mind when she answered this question."

"I don't understand."

"She was lying, Gus. She has killed someone."

Gus couldn't ask Pappy to leave that out of the report. The guy had too much integrity. He knew, however, that the FBI wouldn't be eager to cut a deal with a woman who had apparently gotten away with murder.

"You want me to type up the report?"

Gus thought for a second, then said, "Hold on, Pappy. Let me look into this first."

Chapter
Forty-Three.

There was nopanic at midnight, no missing glass slipper. Even so, if Mrs. Rankin made her mop the floors once more, Andie was going to change her alias from Kira to Cinderella.

The store had been closed on Sunday, but Andie had worked a full day just cleaning the place up. Monday had started the way the weekend had left off, one menial task after another. In the make-believe world, Kira was about halfway to earning that necklace the old lady had promised her. In the real world, Andie was trying to find a discreet way to get the story behind that innocent-looking woman Mrs. Rankin had run out of the store Saturday afternoon.

Andie squeezed the soapy brown water from the mop into the bucket. Mrs. Rankin stood over her and inspected the damp and shiny floors.

"Not bad," she said, arms folded across her sagging bosom. "Corners need some work."

Andie rose and leaned defiantly on her mop handle. She'd about had it. "The corners are just fine."

"They're fine when I say they're fine."

"This is a thrift store. Not an operating room."

"Don't sass me. Or I'll fire you on the spot."

"You'd like that, wouldn't you? A nice power rush." "Watch yourself," she said sternly.

"What is it with you? You sit on your butt all day long just waiting for the chance to jump down somebody's throat."

"I'm warning you, Kira."

"No, I'm tired of it. You abuse me, you abuse your customers. Like that woman in here yesterday, just minding her own business."

"Don't get into that."

"She wasn't hurting anybody. Just looking at sweaters." "Shut your trap. You don't know what you're talking about."

"I was standing right there. I saw what happened." "I had every right to throw her out of here."

"Well, people also have the right to be treated with a little respect. A little kindness. Maybe you should try it sometime."

"Maybe you should zip it up before I fire you."

"Maybe I'll quit if you don't start treating people nicely."

"What's your problem? You don't even know that woman."

"Makes no difference. She seemed nice enough to me." The old lady was steaming. She grabbed Andie by the ann.

"Let go of me!" said Andie.

She squeezed harder and led Andie to the door. "What are you, crazy?"

She flung open the door and led Andie outside. "Come on!" she said harshly. "You think she looks nice, huh? You want to be friends with that woman, do you? You be my guest." They stopped at the lamp post a half block away. A flyer was tacked to it at eye level. Mrs. Rankin snatched it down and shoved it at Andie.

"Here you go, you stupid brat. You want to be chummy with her, you go right ahead. Just don't ever step foot in my store again."

She turned and stormed back to her shop. Andie stood at the curb, confused. The printed flyer was a crumpled ball in her hand. She unfurled it and read it. Instantly Andie knew her work was done at the thrift shop.

'Tomorrow night there was someplace else she had to be.

Gus couldn't stop thinking about the polygraph results.

His first instinct had been to summon Shirley and confront her. As a lawyer, however, he knew that cross-examination without preparation was a recipe for disaster. He needed to gather his thoughts, review the information he had. Unfortunately, nothing in his possession offered any insight into whether Shirley had ever really killed anyone. He had a copy of her criminal record. He had all the newspapers relating to her arrest and trial. He could turn his private investigator loose to scrounge for more, but that would take time. Too much time.

He returned to the Washington Corrections Center for Women on Monday morning, a little calmer but otherwise no better disposed to interrogate Shirley than he had been on Saturday. As he sat behind the Plexiglas partition, even the calmness disappeared. She had kept him waiting nearly twenty minutes. Finally, the door opened behind him.

The guard said, "Shirley doesn't want to meet with you."

"What?"

She says she doesn't want any visitors this morning." "I drove all the way over here to see her."

"Sony."

"What else is on her schedule, lawn tennis at Wimbledon?"

"Hey, if she doesn't want to see you, I can't make her."

Gus rose, struggling to contain his anger. He took two steps closer and invaded the guard's space. The guard was little more than a kid, less than half Gus's age, much smaller in stature. "Get her."

The guard took a half step back.

"Get her right now," said Gus. "Or I have no choice but to call the warden and tell him you are interfering with confidential communications between an attorney and his client."

"Don't do that. I just got this job."

"Then don't let an inmate jerk you around. Bring me Shirley Borge."

He blinked nervously as he backed out through the door. Gus went back to his chair in front of the glass. His anger was rising. Shirley was toying with him, playing games about whether she did or didn't know where Beth was. Concealing the fact that she had indeed murdered someone. Maybe she was even lying when she denied any involvement in Beth's disappearance and had simply fooled the machine. Now she was pulling this "I don't want to see him" crap. It was time for Gus to get in her face.

The door opened and Shirley entered the room on the other side of the glass. She stepped forward and stopped, glaring at him from five feet away. Gus's anger turned to confusion. Her face was purple and puffy. The left eye was nearly swollen shut. A nasty split on her lower lip had been stitched closed.

They picked up their phones. "What happened to you?" he asked, both curious and concerned.

"I fell out of bed." She was deadpan, then added, "I got the shit beat out of me, what does it look like?"

"Who did this to you?"

"Nobody in particular. Nobody likes a rat in prison." "What are you talking about?"

"Word got out I took a polygraph."

"I'm sorry. I don't know how that happened."

She looked at him with contempt. "I know what you're doing, Mr. Wheatley. Very clever plan. You have me sit for a polygraph, then have a guard or someone leak it to the other inmates. That's a sure-fire way of putting pressure o
n m
e to cooperate. Now I have two options. Take a beating every day for being a rat. Or I can talk to you and hope the FBI will at least transfer me to another prison."

"That's not at all what happened."

She shook her head, clearly unconvinced. "You cost me big-time. I had some respect in this place. When I got busted, I could have shaved five years off my sentence if I just ratted out my partners. I wouldn't do it. I took the rap myself. That's a badge of honor inside here. Now I've lost it."

"I swear to you. We took every precaution to keep this quiet. We didn't leak a thing."

"Right," she scoffed, glaring through the glass. "Good luck finding your wife now, asshole." She slammed down the phone and turned away.

Gus wanted to call out but couldn't. He felt numb, helpless, as she crossed the room and disappeared behind the door.

Chapter
Forty-Four.

Andie arrived at the Eagle Trace Motel in Yakima just before eight o'clock on Tuesday evening. She went straight to a room called the governor's hall, which had nothing to do with the governor. It was just an impressive-sounding name for an unimpressive meeting room.

There was a slight backup at the door. A young woman was passing out pamphlets to each person as they entered. Andie was fifth in line. It moved quickly.

"Welcome," said the woman. "Please sit anywhere you'd like."

Andie took the pamphlet and went inside. It was an unadorned room. No artwork on the walls. Basic beige carpeting. She counted twenty rows of folding chairs, ten on each side with an aisle down the center. About half the seats were filled with adults of all ages, about an equal number of men and women. Some were dressed as Andie was, as though they didn't have much in life. Others wore the kind of clothes Andie might wear in real life. Some had come as couples, but it seemed most had come alone. Very few were talking to each other. Most had left an empty seat between them and the nearest person.

Andie sat on the far right side on the very end about halfway toward the front. An old man was seated to her left. He looked straight ahead at the podium, though no on
e w
as there. Andie removed her coat, folded it in her lap, and read the pamphlet the girl had given her at the door. It was simply a reprint of the flyer that had been tacked to the pole outside Mrs. Rankin's store.

In bold letters it read, "Tap the untapped energy within and around you." That sounded innocuous enough. It went on: "If you have ever entertained the idea that humans can indeed acquire the kind of energy that is necessary to transition to a level beyond human, you will want to attend this gathering."

Any doubt as to the true purpose of the meeting was eliminated by the fine print: "This is not a religious or philosophical organization recruiting membership."

Right. And the Congress was not controlled by special interests.

Straight up at eight o'clock, the doors closed. The lights dimmed. The crowd fell silent. From the back of the room, a beam of light blazed over the audience and illuminated the podium. It cast a faint circle of light at first, but it grew stronger as the ambient lighting continued to dim. It was like watching the moon rise, *a white ball of light rising over the podium, shining brilliantly against the reflective backdrop. In a matter of moments the audience was shrouded in total darkness. The white globe around the podium was the only light.

Without warning, the spotlight went out. The room was black. Just as suddenly the light returned. It cut like a laser through the darkness and shined on the man who had almost magically appeared behind the podium. He stood with arms outstretched and his head tilted back, his eyes to the ceiling. He brought the microphone to his mouth and shouted in a deep, resounding voice, "I am the god of hell fire, and I bring you . . . fire!"

Music erupted from the large speakers in the back. It was the 1968 rock 'n' roll smash by the Crazy World of Arthur Brown, with its shrill organ music and swift beat.

He sang of fire and burning in a voice that sounded almost demonic. The man at the podium moved not an inch, frozen in the light. The music pounded for another ten seconds and was building to a crescendo. Then it ended abruptly with the sound of a phonograph needle scratching on vinyl.

The lights came on. The music wasg one. The room was back to normal. The bemused man at the podium stood with his hands at his sides. A handsome man, not much older than Andie.

"I am the god of hell fire?" he asked incredulously. A smile crept to his lips. "I don't think so."

A few members of the audience chuckled uneasily.

"Had you all going there for a moment, though, didn't I?" He approached an elderly couple in the front row and said playfully, "Come on, admit it. I saw you kind of lean into your wife and mutter between your teeth: 'Get your purse, Ethyl, the man's a lunatic.'"

The old man laughed. Others laughed with him. "What's your name, sir?"

"Bob."

He shook his hand. "Good to meet you, Bob. My name's Steven Blechman." He smiled and returned to the podium. "And I am not a god. And this meeting is not about hell fire. In fact, it has absolutely nothing to do with what I am. It's about you and the direction of your life." He let the words hang for effect, then added, "And there is' nothing more important than that."

Andie watched carefully, listened to his every word. He was a curious blend of television evangelist and stand-up comedian. Riveting. Captivating.

"I'm curious. Does anyone here believe there is energy in the universe?"

A few people answered, "Yes."

"Come on. All of you believe that. The stars shine. The planets rotate. Comets soar. There is energy."

Many people nodded.

"Congratulations," he said, smiling. "You've all passed physics for idiots one-oh-one. But now answer this question for me. Privately. Honestly. As honest as you can be with yourself." He paused and leaned forward, as if putting the question to each member of the audience individually. "Do you feel connected to that energy?"

The audience was silent. He had them thinking. He waited nearly half a minute, then said, "Perhaps some of you think you are. But do you feel so connected that if you left this earth today, it would carry you to the next level? The level beyond human?"